The Plight of the Nine
by tomh2013
Summary: What would happen if the garde never met up? They'd get picked off one by one. Each chapter discusses the fate of the garde from Number One to Number Nine. I decided not to include Ella in this one. What happens when Nine is the last one alive? How does Two react to One's death? How will each react to being next? Which number would you like to be? This story isn't cannon with IANF.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not claim any ownership to the Lorien Legacies Franchise. I hereby wave any rights to profit from the proceeding story. If anybody tries to sue me, keep in mind that my mother is a lawyer and you will lose. Thank you. **

Chapter One: The Killing of Number One

I was the oldest member of the garde who escaped from Lorien the day of the Mogadorian invasion. Unfortunately for me, I was also the only Loric unlucky enough to be Number One.

I don't remember the physical profile of the other eight children who escaped. I only know that they're much luckier than I am.

Perhaps the _only_ advantage to being Number One is the degree of importance bestowed in my hands. I am the _only _member of the garde who can stop the Mogadorians from beginning their countdown from nine to zero.

In any regard, the facts of my life don't change. No matter how much they suck.

I was seven when I left. My cêpan, Joseph, told me that the other members of the garde ranged from age three to age five when we left Lorien. I guess if anybody had to be Number One, my age qualifies me best for the job.

I know I am to receive my legacies first. The problem is I am only 11 right now. We've been here three short years and already we've been located. Joseph and I screwed up big time three days ago.

We had just departed from Baskin Robbins, my favorite ice cream parlor. Joseph always gets me two scoops of cookie dough with oreo cookie crumbles in it. It has been my favorite flavor ever since we moved to Canberra, Australia two years ago. Before that we had been jumping from Saudia Arabia to France to India to Venezuela and now Australia. We've been here for _far _longer than we should have stayed. But ever since we've been moving from country to country, I've developed severe anxiety and panic attack disorder.

"Mathew," Joseph addressed me by my alias, "we need to consider moving away from Canberra."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because now that your conditions are well managed, we really need to move around some more. The Loric leave traces of their being everywhere they go. It's only a matter of forensics and time until we're located."

I was not to be deterred from remaining in the only place I knew as "home."

"Well there's been no trace of those peeps you call Mogs in this town," I replied with a bitter tone, "it'd be stupid to just settle down somewhere where the local traditions are foreign."

"Listen, Matt-"

"Do _not_ call me Matt! It's bad enough I live on this stinkhole called earth, knowing I'm the only vulnerable alien on this planet, fighting anxiety and panic attacks daily without you calling me a _pathetic_ human nickname!"

"Sorry, _Mathew_," Joseph uttered rather frustrated with my pre-teen angst. A pompous, self-assured smile plays upon my lips. "But the reality is this whole Loric thing is pretty dang tricky for me to keep calm about too. I would really appreciate it if you kept your voice down. We've never seen a Mog on earth so we would have no way of knowing what one looks like."

At the exact moment Joseph finished justifying his thoughts, I suddenly felt an eerie sense that the last sentence out of my beloved cêpan's mouth had been a trigger to an unwelcome gun.

A tall shadow emerged from seemingly nowhere. I'm not sure how I knew to do it but I turned around, and with Joseph's prized Loric knife, I slashed the throat of our stalker.

I got lucky.

The figure behind us had been a Mog. It only took about two second for it to disintegrate into a worthless pile of stagnant ash. Ash that once housed a spirit so evil.

Joseph and I ran the remaining six blocks to our city home. He grabbed my chest and we retreated from Canberra in our 2003 Ford Explorer.

Three days later, we've made it to Melbourne where we plan to flee to Churchill, New Zealand. Joseph urges me to get some more sleep. We're staying in the Airport Hilton until 4:00 AM tomorrow morning. We will catch a flight to Wellington and a second flight to Churchill.

But I can't sleep. How could I? My anxiety is _skyrocketing_. The only comfort I can find is the knowledge that Joseph and I escaped.

Joseph is a brilliant cêpan and I love him with every corner of my heart. He is a confident man with short, brown hair absent of a widows peak. He has powerful, broad shoulders with arms to match. He is about 6'2" and probably around 220 pounds. I stare at myself in our bathroom mirror, and I wonder if this body will still be alive in a day. Two days? A month? Four years? My wavy blond hair is a fine fit for my sapphire blue eyes and thin nose. I'm tall for an 11-year-old but have as of yet to develop a legacy.

I finally manage to drift off around 1:30. When I wake, Joseph and I head to the airport. I've been to an airport before, and today I should feel no different than the other times I've had to board a plane to flee from place to place. We place our Loric weapons in our suitcases and check our only two bags.

Being in the air is Joseph's least favorite period of time. We're unarmed and cornered in a small space that yields no route of escape. But he and I both know that taking a plane is the most efficient and effective way of escaping Australia. Lately, commercial ocean liners leaving Australia have been disappearing. Joseph believes that the Mogs use thermal imaging to identify higher body temperatures (I run a body temperature of about 104 farenheit or 40 celcius) and then bomb the ships. But so far, the Mogs have only managed to eliminate unlucky humans who happen to be on a ship with somebody with an uncontrolled fever.

I spot a Starbucks coffee shop a short ways away from the security checkpoint we just passed through. I personally detest coffee, but Joseph likes the bitter and burned taste that characterizes Starbucks.

"We must look like zombies in the exhausted state we're in." I say to Joseph, trying to keep his hopes for escape high, despite the fact that I'm probably far more pessimistic about our prospects that he is.

Joseph appreciates my gesture and gives me knowing grin. "You know kiddo? You would have had many friends in America. You're observant, intelligent and empathetic. I know I haven't been the most caring father to you these past few days, but that's why we're vacationing in New Zealand."

After the incident in Canberra, I know that Joseph is talking in a sort of code as to not give us away as alien. Of course he means "Lorien" instead of "America." But I catch the gist of what he's communicating.

Joseph orders a grandé iced vanilla latté. I ask for a hot chocolate, despite the fact that it's a toasty day in January. While we sit in the food court, I solve sudoku. I've always enjoyed working with numbers. They make _sense_. I've never confessed this to Joseph, but I believe that math puzzles make more sense to me than our home planet. Joseph adjusts his large, athletic frame to fit between the lady's chair at the next table and a decorative floral arrangement. He cruises the news all the time. Always scanning for word of the others. We've only identified one news story that could've been of Loric creation.

A year ago in Florence, Italy, a distraught seven-year-old girl stumbled into a street for some unidentified reason and was struck by a bus traveling 30 mph. Instead of the girl being killed, the driver of the bus was pressed against his seat with a force of a bus. All of his ribs had been shattered and he was dead only moments after the bus hit the girl. To our knowledge, she hasn't been located. But I _know _she's one of us. How else could she be unharmed? But the thought makes me shutter: if a bus hit me with that force, I would be dead in a heartbeat.

"All quiet on the Loric front," Joseph informs me with a subtle hint of joy. I know his positive tone is a result of three things. First, no signs of the others being captured. Second, no signs of Mogadorians. Third, he just did a play off of the Erich Maria Remarque novel All Quiet on the Western Front. Although many would deem Joseph's play on words as offensive, Joseph was one of the leading experts on human warfare back on Lorien. I know his statement is a reminder of why he is on earth and how important it is that I survive.

"Awesome!" I say. I'm not worried about Joseph saying the word "Loric" because he had been checking to make sure that we were alone when he was scrolling through news stories tagged "miracle", "explosion", "disappearance", and "sighting."

We make our way to gate A1. Of course it's A1. The first stinkin' letter and number. Very appropriate for my number.

Joseph and I take our seats at 12D and 12E. Joseph always takes the aisle as to better protect me. I take the middle so that I'm not cornered against a wall, and so that I'm not exposed to danger in the aisle.

I rest my head on Joseph's massive shoulder. I'm _so _tired. It's so unfair. Most teenage boys worry about girls, grades, and at the worst, domestic affairs. But _no_ I have to concern myself with staying alive and remaining invisible to everyone around me.

"It's ok," Joseph assures me with a paternal smile. "We'll be able to rest easy once we get settled down in Churchill. But you realize that we'll have to move away from New Zealand with a few months, right?"

I nod solemnly. I've always appreciated Joseph's upfront, yet tender honesty.

Unfortunately for us, neither of us catches the sight of five men in boots, trench coats and what I like to call "Old Englishman hats" casually take their places behind us. Each is probably slightly smaller than Joseph.

As our plane reaches its cruising altitude, I reach a state of lethargy: I'm unable to fall asleep but I'm unable to remain fully aware of my surroundings. I'm shaken awake when a piercing scream fills the cabin.

Two of the trench coat men, now clearly Mogadorians, have isolated my section of the plane from the rest of the cabin. Of _course_ the Mogs would pull out their blasters to scare people. What else would they do? Behave like a civilized life form? _Hehe that'd be a good joke for Monty Python, _I think to myself. But that thought is gone in an instant as I know that I am in danger and that I must defend myself.

Joseph is a step ahead of me. He puts one of the Mogadorians in a headlock and snaps its neck with his massive arm. I leap over my seat and attempt to disarm one of the Mogadorians. However, it is too quick for me. It ducks under my lunge and grabs my left foot. Before I can say "oh crap", it has me pinned against the overhead compartment. That is until Joseph knocks it out cold. That's just what Joseph would do: he'd fight for his own foolish garde even at 20,000 plus feet.

Our brief rebellion ends there, though. Before my panicking brain can register the sequence of events correctly, Joseph has been shot by a Mog and one of the three remaining Mogs has me pinned on the ground. His hand rips my pendant off. I glance around desperately at the other passengers, hoping that one of them will have to courage to defend an 11-year-old boy.

I'm as unlucky as I was the day I became Number One. The other passengers are more fearful than I am because they have _no_ clue what even just went down. As the Mogadorian on me raises his sword to stab me, I manage to ease out the words: "The Loric... It only starts with me... You'll never finish our race!"

Even though I know I can do no more, those words in a sense validate the fight posed by Joseph and I. I know that I truly did everything I could've done for Lorien on this plane.

The Mog grins. It's filthy pale yet dark facial features become apparent. It's tiny teeth menacing as they gleam from lights on the aisle floor. It swoops the silvery-white sword from its upright position above me and swings it down in a perfect arc right into my heart.

Right before the sword strikes, I catch sight of Joseph moving. _He's not dead!_ I think to myself. I know that Joseph can't help me now and I'm sure he knows it too. I want him to play dead so that the Mogs just might let this plane land and not bother to stab or shoot him again. I want Joseph to help the other members of the garde if at all possible.

But my last thought lasts all of a fraction of a second. The last thing I feel is the ice cold blade on the surface of my skin just over my heart.

And then it's all over.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not claim any ownership to the Lorien Legacies Franchise. I hereby wave any rights to profit from the proceeding story. If anybody tries to sue me, keep in mind that my mother is a lawyer and you will lose. Thank you.**

Chapter Two: The Murder of Number Two

We have just arrived at our new home in Saldanha, South Africa. Ever since arriving on Earth, Alex, my cêpan, and I have been hiding in rural African towns. Although at first, our skin was rather pale, our skin has developed a much darker pigment. Now we are indistinguishable from the natives in our towns. Alex generally tries to put us in towns from 10,000-50,000 people. It ensures that we can spot Mogadorians, but we are not too conspicuous ourselves.

Inside our humble rambler, Alex and I have placed "traditional" tribal symbols all over the house to create the illusion that we are true South Africans. Before South Africa, it was Ghana. Before that it was Egypt. And even before that, we have stayed in Eritrea, Central African Republic, Chad, Angola, Libya and Morocco.

I was only five when I left Lorien. Now I am 11. Three years ago, my first scar made its repugnant appearance on my right ankle. I had been in Abyar, Libya when it arrived. The boys my age enjoyed playing football (or in America, they call it soccer). I enjoyed being right mid because I could always beat anybody one-on-one, and I was able to move far quicker than the other boys. I was taking a break under a small picnic shelter when I felt the awful burning sensation sending itself deep into my nervous system. I staggered home through the pain. I found Alex making some traditional Libyan dish for lunch. I still do not know the name of that dish.

"Oh my god! What's wrong?" Alex rushed over to me in a jiffy. He knew I wouldn't have come home crying unless something was horribly wrong. When he saw my state of anguish up close, he repeated his question, only with more desperation: "Two! What's going on? Come on, you've got to tell me! Did you tell someone about us?"

I was hardly able to speak through the pain. So instead I lowered my sock so that Alex could see what had happen.

"Oh no," Alex wheezed, he clearly tried to maintain a sense of calm so that I wouldn't panic, but he and I both knew what this unwelcome mark meant. "We must go. Now." Alex's face was suddenly focused on the duty he now took on: Protect the member of the garde who is next in line.

Alex placed a bag of ice on my scar and taped it there. He then grabbed three pairs of clothes for each of us from the house and my chest and we set off for the local airstrip and we headed for Chad.

Until that day, we had been hopeful that the Mogadorians hadn't found us on Earth. So long as they hadn't found evidence of us on Earth, perhaps Number One would not be killed and thus I would never be next. But that scar had crushed those aspirations. Number One had been killed. He or she had been just like me. Hiding, hoping and running, but it wasn't enough. Number One was killed anyway, and most likely his cêpan as well. Also with One's death, now there were Loric marks on _both_ ankles, not just my left one. Now every time I went out, I had to cover both ankles.

"Hey Dominick! Give me a hand with our stuff!" Dominick is the name I have chosen for our new home. Alex has never changed his name, and he credits his European name to the Age of Imperialism that shook Africa in the early 20th century.

"Yeah, give me a minute."

I don't want to help Alex. At least not yet. I always scout out the yard of a new house we move into. It's always good to have an escape route in your brain.

After scouting the yard, I head in to help Alex. It's not like he needs my help. He's about 6'3" and very athletic. I swear he could just carry in all of our stuff in one trip.

"So, what do ya think?" Alex always poses this question to me whenever we inhabit a new house.

"I'm perfectly complacent with just about any house we choose," I respond. "Besides, let's be honest, it's not like we'd just get up and move just 'cause I didn't _happen_ to enjoy yet another humble abode." I say this with a good-natured smirk. Alex and I rarely fight. I suppose it's due in part to the fact that we are both easy-going people who are trying to give each other a reason to live.

"Can't argue with that! So there's a small grove of trees about a quarter of a mile from our back porch, and supposedly it was owned by the former tenant of this house so it'll be great for training."

Alex doesn't send me to the schools in Africa, often because there are none present, but also because he believes that his Loric education is superior to that of the schools on Earth. I don't really blame him. After all, humans _still_ are unaware that Mars was a Loric outpost used to monitor the environmental changes occurring on Earth.

Suddenly I'm overcome with a feeling of dread. I flop down on the recliner in the homey living room and let out a long sigh.

"What's wrong?" Alex inquires.

"I was just thinking about who Number One was and where they died."

Alex sits on the couch opposite of me and gives me a concerned, paternal stare. "I can't say I blame you. I'm sorry that you had to be Number Two."

"I just don't understand it. You search the web all day and we had _no_ idea that this scar would appear." I know I sound like a young child, but I'm only 11 and being next on a bloodthirsty race's hit list can boggle your mind after a while. "The only semi-suspicious activity we've seen is that girl in Florence."

"Well it's true. We didn't see One's death coming, but maybe he died in an accident. And regardless of how he died, you're next in the countdown and so long as we keep hidden, they'll have great difficulty in finding us."

"Hold on. Did you say 'he?' Do you remember Number One or any other garde?"

"I'm only saying that because I'm a grammar nerd and one person can't be a 'they'. It's he or she and he is the default in English."

My god Alex can be a nerd. "I should've figured," I shake my head.

"Anyway, what we need to focus on is the situation on our hands. As long as you stay alive, the others will remain, for all practical purposes, invincible."

I nod. I know he's right. How could the Mogadorians know where I am? I've done nothing that couldn't be done by a human and I've hidden my scars well. In three or four years, I'll get my first legacy and I'll be prepared to defend myself when the time comes.

Alex starts preparing dinner for us. We both are very sociable, and we are capable of making friends with our neighbors quickly, but ever since One died, we've lived a much more secluded lifestyle. As we're eating dinner, Alex shares a news story that he found an hour earlier.

"So in Nepal, there was supposedly a large explosion on one of the buses that runs through the Himalayan mountains."

"Oh? What happened?"

"Well supposedly there's a very active and angry terrorist group that opposes the modernization of Nepal."

"Fun stuff," I reply. But even after a few hours, I still feel this cloud of dread that shrouds my conscience.

That night I can't sleep. I hear the sounds of the lush environment, but I feel like something is out of place. I decide to ask Alex if we can relocate soon.

I'm in a plane. I don't see anyone I know and I'm dreadfully confused about what's going on. _Heck, where the heck am I? _I think to myself. _Perhaps I should ask someone?_ As soon as that thought surfaces in my brain, the flight attendant announces over the speaker: "Hello ladies and gentlemen, thank you for flying with us today. This is flight 182 with nonstop service from Melbourne to Churchill. We'll be taking off shortly thank you for your patience." _Weird! Is this a dream or something? I've never even been to Australia or New Zealand. _I notice that I don't even have a ticket. _Yup, this is definitely a dream_. But for some reason, I feel inclined to remain here. I notice a young boy about my age sitting in seat 12E and a large man with a build similar to Alex's in seat 12D. Suddenly, it hits me. I don't know why, but it does. _You're one of us!_ I make my way uneasily through the aisle, that is until I realize that nobody can talk to me or see me. Then I stroll right through the line of people in the aisle.

"Hey!" I yell, but it's futile. I'm just a specter here. I'm in a dream. _That_ much I'm sure of.

Shortly after I reach row 12, I notice five egregious passengers take their seats behind the Loric I'm hopelessly trying to speak to. _Why are they different from the other passengers? _Suddenly, it's like time jumps forward. The plane has taken off and we're at cruising altitude.

As if perfectly coordinated, the five men jump up and draw their guns. Guns that I've never seen before. Only then do I realize what's happening. _It's the killing of Number One!_ I gasp. I _have_ to try and stop this. I can't relive what happened without doing anything about it.

But One's cêpan has already knocked one out cold. _Nice!_ But then I notice One preparing a launch at one of the Mogs. _Get him!_ No such luck, before I register what happened, One is pinned against an overhead cabinet. His cêpan knocks out the Mog, that is, before he is shot dead. Next, the remaining three Mogs surround One, and a Mog raises his sword preparing to begin the countdown of the garde.

"Somebody help him! Somebody _do_ something! Are you all stupid or something?! Once they finish him they'll come for me and the other garde and when they're done with us, they'll come for you!"

All of this is to no avail, of course. But even, so Number One looks around and his eyes tell it all: He is wondering the same thing that I just shouted. His eyes settle on his cêpan for a moment, and he and I both see that he is not dead. As I look back to One, I see the sword penetrate his chest and kill him. By this time I'm trying to punch the Mogadorian like a crazed animal.

The Mog calmly ascends to his former height and grins. His sharp teeth are repulsive. One's cêpan is playing dead, I can tell. One of the Mogs makes his way for the cockpit, the other two do something outright barbaric: they begin shooting everyone on the plane. Men, women, children and to add insult to injury, One's cêpan. He's dead. One is now just a scar on the right ankle of eight garde. In anger I scream louder than I ever thought possible. _This has to alert them to my presence. It has to!_

In a jolt, I wake up with my head cradled in Alex's arms. I realize that I'm perspiring at an alarming rate and I feel as if I screamed my head off.

"Two! Two?! Dominick what's going on?"

"I- I saw Number One die. I know what happened to him." I'm exhausted despite having slept for seven hours.

"Let's get you some water and food. You seem drained. Now tell me, what happened?"

"I was on a plane! Number One and his cêpan were fleeing from Melbourne to Churchill, they must've been discovered in Australia somehow!" I can tell that Alex is frantically trying to come up with some comforting thought. But what was there to say? I was next in line. "Also, I've been having anxiety since moving into this house. It just started in the living room yesterday for no reason."

"Ok, Dominick, just listen to me and please calm down. We'll leave today and maybe we'll go to a different town. But wherever we go, I think it'd be best if we stayed away from airplanes for a while."

I nod. I understand Alex's logic and I have no objections. He throws together some oatmeal and I wolf it down in a hurry.

As I finish my breakfast, Alex packs up our stuff into suitcases and we are preparing to catch a bus to the next town. I still am unsure as to where exactly we are going. I just know that we're heading east.

Alex and I have 17 minutes until the bus comes, and while we wait, we hear in the distance a piercing crash in the forest.

"What was that?" I ask.

"Not sure. If it happens again, I'll go check it out."

After about 30 seconds, it happens a second time. This time, it's probably only about 300 feet away and I look at Alex with a clear display of apprehension.

"Wait here," Alex commands. I have no objection to this. Perhaps that'll be my downfall one day: being to complacent with things. As Alex approaches the tree line across the road from our house and the bus stop, I notice movement in the shrubs. Alex must notice too as he turns back to me and winks.

"Better get your bow and arrow ready!" I yell, "looks like there's a tiger out there!" I have no idea if tigers are this far south in Africa, but who cares?

I never hear Alex's voice again. A curved blade stabs Alex right through the chest and I yelp in fright. _How did they find us? We've kept hidden!_ I know I can't save Alex, but I know that Alex would want me to save myself. Out of pure instinct, I grab the hunting rifle Alex keeps in his backpack at all times and in my other hand, I pick up my Loric chest.

Remaining as silent as possible, I sprint away from the treeline as quickly as possible. I remember that Alex told me about the grove of trees a quarter of a mile behind our house. Maybe if I can get there, I'll be able to lose these Mogs. I haven't gone far before I realize with terror that my pursuers are gaining on me, and quickly. I empty the barrel of the hunting rifle as Alex has shown me and I put the bullets in my pocket. Next, I drop the gun.

Due to my physical enhancement, I'm able to reach the grove in little time at all, although the Mogs are probably only 200 feet behind me at this point. I dive behind a rather thick tree trunk and quiet my breathing. _I have to remain quiet. _I noticed that the Mogs had hideous beasts with them. _If those beasts are anything like the animals in the jungle, they act on scent and sound. Scent! How do I get rid of tha-_. My thinking is interrupted by a massive hand grasping my left shoulder. I squeal, but the thing's other hand covers my mouth. Suddenly I'm lifted into the arms of this stranger. I try to fight its grasp but it's much stronger than I am.

I realize that silence is again my ally, calling for help will only anger my captor. Perhaps he's a friendly Mog? _Yeah right, stupid. Why the heck would a Mog ever help you?_

But the Mog isn't carrying me towards the other Mogadorians at all, instead we're getting farther from them. He sets me down and turns me to see his face.

"Are you alright?" He asks in perfect English.

What in the world is going on here? Did I really just get saved by a Mog? "Yeah," I say nervously, "I'm ok." As soon as that last word leaves my mouth, I try to weasel away from this rogue... whatever he was, but he wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me back.

"I'm here to help you. There's no time to explain why. Just go along with me."

"Uh," I'm stunned, I try to escape his grasp, but again I have no luck. I turn and look at my captor in the face. He is built 6'0" and his arms are bulging with muscle. I realize that he must be a Mogadorian soldier.

"We have to head south. The soldiers coming from that direction have been delayed due to an error with our communicators."

I have no choice but to trust this shady character, so I try and build some sort of trust between us. And even if he is trying to trick me, maybe he'll let me go if he likes me enough.

"I can hotwire any ground vehicle," I offer. "Alex, the man you killed earlier taught me how. He's my cêpan."

"Good to know. The Mog nods." I'm running alongside him. "We're gonna get to the end of this grove, then hook back around on the outside of our military formation and squeeze through the southern gap."

As my rescuer says this last sentence. A sentence that was meant to ignite a sense of hope inside of me, he is shot through the torso by a Mogadorian cannon. He reaches for his own gun and tries to counter with a shot of his own. No such luck for either of us. Two more blasts and he's turned to ash.

I don't even look back towards where the blasts came from. I'm so focused on surviving that I just keep pushing towards the edge of the grove. As I leap over a downed tree, a Mogadorian hits me between the shoulder blades with a throwing knife. I turn over, moaning.

"Well, well, well. Finally gotcha you little scumbag." My perpetrator is filled with confidence at his latest kill. He puts his foot over my throat and draws his sword and positions it over my throat. I try to move. I'm sweating profusely and all I can think of is: _I must survive. For Lorien. For Number One. For Alex. For that rogue Mog. I have to get out of this_. I can't even move my legs, though I try to kick feverishly.

"Let me go!" I manage to gasp out, although I know it's pathetic.

"You should really cover Number One's scar next time you head to a marketplace." Its putrid face etches a grin from ear to ear.

_So that's how they found me. I forgot to cover up my right ankle_. I'm overcome with the irony of it all: I had sympathized so much with One's death, yet it was his scar that ultimately would end my life.

As my tears are about to surface, the Mog makes quick work of whipping his sword across my neck.

Then it all goes black.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not claim any ownership to the Lorien Legacies Franchise. I hereby wave any rights to profit from the proceeding story. If anybody tries to sue me, keep in mind that my mother is a lawyer and you will lose. Thank you.**

Chapter 3: The Hunt for Number Three

The gentle lapping of the waves at my feet sends pure serenity through my veins. With each step on the shore, I leave an imprint of my foot in the sand. The footprint serves as a reminder of what was once on that very spot. But of course, the water delivers more wet sand into the pit and my print disappears. That effectively embodies what my life has been: a series of homes but nothing to show for it.

I was only three when I left Lorien, and even now I can only boast an age of 12. I have been on the top of the Mogadorians' most wanted list for three years now. I'm not about to give them an easy kill. I am Number Three. But the people of Earth know me as Allison Smith.

Marissa is sunning herself on our deck. She's my cêpan, but as far as Earthlings know, she is my aunt. I am told that I am not the only member of my family still alive. I am the little sister of Number Eight. Eight is 13 now and will likely acquire a first legacy soon.

In any case, I am determined to stay alive so that Eight won't ever be hunted by the Mogs.

Not like I was.

When I was seven, Marissa and I had been staying in Florence. The Mogs had caught our tail back in Zurich, Switzerland. I had made the mistake of wiping the sweat off my pendant and onto a napkin at our table. Unfortunately for Marissa and I, the Mogs had caught our scent a while back and they were now trying to identify exactly _who_ in Florence was the extraterrestrial of interest.

Anyway as soon as Marissa and I left the small diner, we were grabbed from behind and taken into a dark alley (there are plenty in Florence). One Mog held my feet to the ground while another pinned my arms down. Before the Mogs dared to commit any serious act of violence, they checked my ankles to ensure that I was a Garde. They found no scars on my right ankle, as Number One had not been killed yet. But on my left ankle, they found my own scar, the scar that represents three. Luckily for us, the Mogs didn't know about the charm yet, and the commander stepped forward to drive a blade through my heart. He had a truly repulsive appearance. His skin was ghostly pale, but his eye orbits were a sickening bluish-purple color.

"It'll be splendid to personally give your pendant to our leader." The Mog's voice seemed to coil its chilling tone around my throat. I couldn't move, I couldn't speak and I couldn't breath. Marissa didn't seem to have any more courage than I did. She was pinned to a wall by two Mogs twice her size. Poor thing. The commander wasted no time disposing of me. He raised his ghoulish sword and with a grunt, he plunged it straight into my chest.

But I didn't die. I felt a flutter where the blade made contact with my skin, and before the commander had the opportunity to show any surprise, he burst into a cloud of dust. The remaining Mogs stared at me in horror. Without a second's delay, I was up and sprinting towards the street. Behind me I could hear whispers of shock and awe coming from the Mogs.

A screech echoed to my right, followed by a horn. I turned to see a frightened bus driver vainly trying to stop his bus. It hit me full force. I could hear crunching of bones and metal. Again the charm had saved my life. The bones I heard crunching were those of the bus driver's. He looked like a flattened piece of paper stuck to his seat. Before I had any time to cry or run or whatever I would have done, Marissa had taken me by my left arm (apparently the Mogs were so shocked by my display of immortality that Marissa had simply shaken loose and run after me). The next day, I woke up in Lyon, France.

Here we are, about five or six years later in St. Pete Beach, Florida. Marissa discovered a small community comprised of mostly elderly people in a place called Passe-a-Grille. She enjoys tanning on the deck of our two-story town home.

"In a couple minutes, we'll head over to the Hurricane to get some lunch."

"Sounds lovely!" I really like Passe-a-Grille. During spring and summer, tourists flock to small inns littered throughout the community, but during November, sunny days like today are all for the locals to enjoy. During high tide, the Gulf of Mexico washes so far up the beach that you can walk along the edge of the water and remain within earshot of the house. Nothing could ruin this moment.

The palm trees release a soothing harmony as they sway in the wind. I'm told that on Lorien, palm trees were not considered most beautiful by the ocean, but instead the Loric people always enjoyed bragging about how much of a canopy their palm trees could develop in a jungle. The canopies of Lorien teemed with life, it all seemed to be cohesive. To be honest I'm not even sure if animals even adhered to a food chain on Lorien. By all accounts it seemed utopic, almost too perfect to exist.

My hair suddenly stands on edge. My survival sense has suddenly turned on. I glance down the beach and notice a couple of tall men in trench coats that suddenly appeared about 300 feet up the beach.

Darn Mogs! With my superb eyesight, I can see the two men in great detail. Who wears a trench coat to a beach on a sunny day in Florida? Seriously? Who does that?!

I waste no time. Within thirty seconds I'm on the deck where Marissa is. With my enhanced athleticism I can jump on the side of the house, push off and spring towards a nearby palm tree, wrap my arms around the tree and propel myself into the air and land on the deck of my house.

"We have to go now!"

"What's wrong?" She gazes at me quizzically. I think she may be more tired of moving from place to place than I am.

"Mogs up the beach coming this way. No time to talk, we have to run."

Marissa doesn't need to be told twice. She is already throwing on a tank top and a flowered dress. We don't even bother to grab anything as we run to our Nissan Rogue parked on the street. We always leave our car on the street, it allows for a quick getaway.

I take on last sentimental look at our beach home. We have an assortment of welcoming decorations such as a dolphin saying "there's no place like the beach" on the wall by the dining room table. _I'm gonna miss this place_. But I know that I have no time to make a mental picture of my home. I need to get out of here and fast.

Marissa has already started the car by the time I reach the passenger door.

"Ok, so Passe-a-Grille is a peninsula," Marissa thinks aloud, "which means that the Mogs have probably blocked out all roads leaving this area. We need to use an alternate route."

What Marissa really means is take the jet skis we have tied up to a marina on the other side of the peninsula.

We travel about four blocks and turn left. The sight we find is horrific.

The marina is surrounded by repulsive beings in trench coats.

"Shoot! Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!" (Yes this would be dirtier if I knew who my audience was :)) I'm screaming in panic now. Before this moment I was confident that we would escape and move up north to New York or something. But not anymore. I can't control my emotions like I had been up to this point. It's something Marissa always emphasized: never lose your cool in battle.

"Uh ok. It's alright. We should've expected this..." Marissa is close to tearing up, and I am surprised to notice that salty tears are now streaking my cheeks. "We need to swim out to Eckerd College. They have a marina. There's no way the Mogs have gotten there."

"How far is that? I don't know if I can do this, Marissa. You know I've never been big on swimming."

"Nine years ago our entire race was decimated, and they wanted to ensure that you got off that planet safely. So whether you _think_ you can do it or not is irrelevant. When I count to three, we're dashing out of this car and making a break for the water, you got that?"

I know she's right. She always is. I nod my head, trying to remember what Melissa taught me about keeping my emotions in check.

"One."

As if there wasn't enough adrenaline in me already, I feel yet another dose get released. I unbuckle my seat belt.

"Two."

Two. If only Two hadn't died, then I wouldn't be in this mess! Why couldn't I be lucky and have been Number Eight or Nine? I grab the door handle, ready to bust out of our car and dive into the ocean.

"Three."

Marissa and I are like a blur. We scale stone safety wall and plunge into the water in less than a second. The water feels like a thousand daggers piercing my flesh. The water has always been something that intimidated me, but now it is my only escape. Oh the irony! Within a few seconds I've put about 20 feet between myself and the wall. I begin to claw at the water. I need to force myself forward. _Gotta propel myself a little faster. This is it. This is the beginning of my battle with the Mogadorians, and I'm not gonna lose!_

I take a quick glance behind me, surveying my surroundings. I already have about a 5-foot lead on Marissa. She makes eye contact with me and it's enough to say: keep going. You're the one who needs to make it out of this mess alive. Right as I turn back around, I see one of Eckerd College's Search and Rescue boats. I'm overcome with joy and relief.

That is until I see whose on this savior boat of mine. Mogs! Mogs all gazing at me over the railing! I begin to panic. I stop swimming and instead I am reduced to treading water like a helpless baby. By Lorien, I _hate _the water!

Marissa is behind me and she wraps her arm around my waist and begins to pull me north, towards a house's private dock. Of all the names Marissa has called herself over the years, Marissa, Jasmine, Sarabia, Athena, Fiona and Perrine, I have always secretly considered her name to be "mom."

The dock is about 60 feet away. I'm not sure how long I can remain afloat in the water. Nevertheless, I gulp a large quantity of air and make a desperate attempt to reach the dock. With only one breath between where I pulled away from Marissa in the water and the dock, I manage to get a grasp on one of the wooden planks.

I clear the water by pushing myself onto the center of the dock. I take a glance back and I'm devastated at the sight I face. Of all the horrific sights for a young Garde to behold, none are as bad as seeing your beloved cêpan's head with a harpoon entering the left side and exiting the right. Her facial expression before she died seemed to be one of desperation: she was begging for me to reach this dock.

I'm tempted to bawl until one of the Mogs reaches me. But I never earn that opportunity. I'm pulled up forcibly from behind. Only this isn't a person helping me to my feet. This individual has already wrapped her hand around my pendant. Wait a minute, a _female_ Mog? Suddenly, my pendant thrown over my head and is now secure in my captor's hand. I face her: she has a nearly identical appearance to the Mogadorian warriors described to me by Marissa. Her only exceptions are instead of black eyes, she has red ones, and she seems to be slightly shorter and not as muscular as the average male Mog. Almost immediately, I realize that my observation will only condemn me to death: this woman-thing is determined to prove to her male cohorts that she too can kill, and she plans to use me as a demonstration.

I squirm desperately to get away. It's futile: I'm a dead Garde. I can't believe it. Tears begin to surface in my eyes. _I'm sorry Number Eight, I guess you'll never know who your sister was. I'm sorry Lorien, I failed my mission, I'll never get to return to you ever again. And more than anything: I'm sorry Marissa, I shouldn't have been so careless as to avert my attention from my surroundings like I did moments ago._ I can't take knowing that I'll be a scar on the right ankle of six alien children somewhere on this planet. But it's alright, I don't have to wait long for my end to come.

"Foolish child," the Mog hisses in broken English, "you never had a chance of making an escape from this peninsula. You should've killed yourself. At least that way, you could've decided how your life ended."

As these words exit her mouth, I feel a dreadful, painful, numbing sensation come from my lower abdomen. Her ghoulishly white sword has penetrated from my lower abdomen up into my chest.

And then I catch my last glimpse of daylight.


End file.
